


Young God

by HalfwayToHell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biker AU, Explicit Thoughts, M/M, Twelve Year Old Sam, Underage Kissing, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, seemingly unrequited wincest, sixteen year old Dean, waywardsons!verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 21:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7730026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfwayToHell/pseuds/HalfwayToHell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summers in Lawrence, Kansas were nothing short of unforgiving. Left to run their father's shop, twelve-year-old Sam Winchester learns that the affection he feels toward his older brother and the hope that one day Dean might feel the same is almost too much for his pubescent heart to handle. But when a small--and not entirely insignificant--event happens, the youngest Winchester is given hope. Summer of 1995 would be the stepping stone into their irrevokably--dangerous--codepent realtionship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Young God

**Author's Note:**

> Young God Verse Playlist:
> 
> David J Roch- Skin & Bones  
> Battlme and The Forest Rangers- Lights  
> Of Rust & Bone- Next To You  
> Bon Iver- Blood Bank  
> The Lumineers- Slow It Down  
> Enya- Boadicea  
> KONGOS- Repeat After Me
> 
> (Please Note: This is a prequel of the Wayward Sons verse/series.)

                                                              

 

The first time Sam fell in love with his older brother he was merely a child--six-years-old to be more precise. It was at this age that he was developing his sense of place in the world, trying to map out where he belonged in the infinite space around him.

 

While Sam could lay in the grass staring up at crystal clear blue skies and wispy clouds until the blue was spilled through with flamingo pink and tangerine orange hues, he pondered these kinds of things as other six-year-olds were making Crayola masterpieces on their parents’ walls or caking their tongues with dirt.

 

Most six-year-olds cared little for the intellectual and philosophical proposals like Sam did, but the youngest Winchester was significantly different compared to the other children; even at such a young, vulnerable and easily manipulated age.

 

There was something special about him; something so special that it often frightened those around him.

Maybe it was the way he could sit stone still, staring pointedly at someone with eyes too big for his small, pudgy face with an almost eerily cold glimmer in his kaleidoscope irises. Maybe it was the way that he could pick someone apart with that gaze of his. Maybe it was the way he stared at his older brother like he was the greatest creation ever gifted to him by the universe.

Whatever it was that caused other’s discomfort around the youngest Winchester, the fear was there. And that was enough.

 

Sam’s love for his brother first began with blood. 

 

Uncle Bobby had bought the youngest an eggshell blue bicycle meant for older children for his sixth birthday. Up until that point, Sam had only ridden around on a bike with training wheels attached. The first time Sam rode on that bicycle, his feet hardly touched the ground when he sat upon it, only being able to balance himself up on the bike with the very tips of his shoe clad toes.

 

Realizing a tad late that the bicycle was a bit too big for Sam—and although he offered to return it to get him a smaller bike, the younger Winchester was too stubborn to allow him to—Uncle Bobby had kept one had on the back of the seat of the bicycle that Sam insisted that he learn to ride as he followed the youngest around in a seemingly endless figure eight that started from the front of the Bunker, around the back of Uncle Bobby’s house, through his junk yard and then back to the safety of the Bunker once more.

 

Teaching Sam to ride the bike had become their own religion, a practice that they promptly performed every single afternoon once Uncle Bobby had finished with the club paperwork or any other business for the Wayward Sons.  

 

On days that Sam’s uncle was far too busy to teach him, Dean did. His big brother—only ten at the time, a child himself—would jog alongside Sam, one hand on the youngest’s lower back as he puffed encouragements for his little brother to keep peddling and even gave Sam praises when he was able to hold himself up for a little while after Dean had let go of him.

 

The day that Sam had first fallen in love with his big brother began like any normal Saturday morning. His brother and his father were leaning into the hood of the old broken down Chevelle—which was nothing much other than a rusted skeleton of what it used to be—that Uncle Bobby had in his junk yard. Their uncle never had any plans to restore the car to its former glory and so he allowed John to use it as a perfect tool for his oldest son.

 

John had been teaching Dean the ins and outs of vehicle engines since he was Sam’s age, engraining it into the older Winchester that one day he would take over the family business and perhaps one day, their father’s biker gang: Wayward Sons.

 

As children, neither of them fully knew what their father did in regards to the club nor what it actually meant to be patched into the gang. Most of the time, the boys had thought that being in the Wayward Sons meant that one day they would be like their father—who wore a leather jacket with two Smith & Wesson guns stitched into the back and simply rode a loud motorcycle that had such a distinct rumble, both of them could hear it from a good mile or so away.

 

The boys were still at an innocent enough age that they did not know the darker side to the Wayward Sons. They did not know about the drugs or the gun runs or the nights spent with whores in red lipstick and teeth stained a corn yellow by cigarettes. No—the Winchester boys were still blissfully gullible to such impure things.

 

John had taught Dean how to check the fluids inside of the Chevelle, how to change out the spark plugs, how to take the engine apart and how to put it painstakingly back together perfectly. Even though his older brother was only ten-years-old, Dean had the car expertise of a mechanic much older than himself.

It was because—unlike Sam—Dean had the patience to learn, he had a one track mindset with goals and ways to get there without exerting himself or taking unnecessary routes. The youngest Winchester’s mind was like a labyrinth, a dark place that he himself had not fully mapped out because there were places in his mind that even he was afraid to travel alone.  

 

There was a beast in the labyrinth of his chest cavity that he wouldn’t dare go near, but sometimes if he was still long enough, if he concentrated long enough, if he was angry long enough—he would feel the beast. He would feel it move and claw and growl and snap its sharp fangs like a ravenous wolf. The beast wanted out and it was the beast that Sam was the most terrified of.

 

While Dean as his father worked on the Chevelle, the youngest rode the bicycle around in circles in the dirt as his father had instructed, staying within his line of vision at all times. Sam’s stubborn nature stewed at this, feeling as though John did not think he was responsible enough to ride around the junk yard and the Bunker on his own. Of course at the time his father was right, but the youngest Winchester’s bullheadedness would never allow himself to admit it.

Sam had peeked over his boney shoulder then to shoot a glance in his father’s direction. Both John and his big brother were too consumed in the interior of the Chevelle’s engine to pay much attention as Sam snuck off, peddling into the heaps of junk cars.

 

The skyscrapers of scrap metal piled high into the sky on either side of the youngest as he continued to pedal along the dirt path that wound through the haphazardly stacked heaps that glimmered copper and silver under the Saturday sun.

 

Every day that Sam rode the bicycle he always tried to push his limit—to see how fast he could ride, to feel the gaining rush of wind through the chestnut mop atop his head, to feel the wind ripping at him and pinning his clothes against his small body. That day was no different than any other day the youngest tried to push the limit—except that it soon would prove to be much different than he initially anticipated.

Sam peddled as fast as his little six-year-old legs would allow him as he tore around a corner, gaining more and more speed with each pump of his legs. The copper and silver towers rushed past him in a blur. He was peddling so fast, that the wind stole his breath right out of his lungs and his vision was starting to distort from the tears prickling at his eyes.

 

The next corner the youngest Winchester took is where he had lost control.

 

The tires lost traction in the dirt and before Sam could cry out, before he could slam on his breaks, he was falling. The fall—although it had last not more than a few milliseconds—felt like an eternity as he saw himself tumbling slowly toward a pile of scrap metal. As if time had suddenly caught up to the speed at which he was falling, he collapsed into the pile.

 

Pain shot through his small body with such intensity, it took Sam a moment to find his voice before he was screaming. Rusted metal cut into his flesh and barbs from wires dug and hooked themselves into him. Sam knew better at that moment than to try and struggle against the barbed-wire that held him prisoner, but he couldn’t help the hot tears that rolled down his cheeks and the scream that seemed to never end as it ripped through his throat.

 

Sam had looked down then to see blood bloom like rose petals underneath the cruel barbs that hooked into him, trickles of the bright red liquid trailing down his knees and shins. He could feel the warmth of the blood on his arms and his chest and his back and even against his cheek.

 

The youngest had not heard Dean before he saw him, his brother skidding to a halt in front of him, kicking up a dirt cloud and immediately dropping to his knees. His brother reached out to try and grab at the wires that held his little brother.

 

Sam watched as his brother suddenly pulled his hands back as though he had been electrocuted—and it was the first time he had heard his brother using words that he was always taught was meant for their father and Uncle Bobby—and blood bubbled up from the pinpricks in the palms of his hands from where his big brother had grabbed the barbed-wire without hesitation.

 

Sam had forgotten about his own pain—for only a moment—to focus on his older brother. Dean, however, had all his attention on Sam as he had murmured promises that he would be okay, that Dad and Uncle Bobby would know what to do, and he even praised the youngest for being brave.

 

Sam did not feel brave as he laid there in the pile of scrap metal with rusted barbs digging into him and tears running down his cheeks still, but he knew Dean was only saying it to make him feel better. His big brother had gone as far as to reach out and cup his pudgy cheeks that were tearstained and Dean’s blood smeared against Sam’s flesh and mixed with the salt in his tears and the iron in his own blood.

After John and Uncle Bobby cut the youngest loose from his metal prison, their father loaded them up into one of the many working cars that their uncle had laying around the junk yard and sped toward Lawrence General Hospital.

 

The entire time, while Sam had been tucked against his brother’s side and his body shook from the blood loss and the rust coursing through his bloodstream, John had been scolding Sam. John was never the one for nurturing and often left that responsibility to Dean.

 

Sam had remembered faintly that Uncle Bobby tried to defend him, tried to tell John that accidents happen, but John being the kind of man who raised his children like to be like soldiers and to follow his every order to the exact punctuation, he did not believe in accidents. He merely believed that disobedience would be punished, one way or another.

 

Two tetanus shots and a handful of Band-Aids and gauze wraps later, the Winchester family had been released from the hospital and it was that very same day that Sam felt a shift in love toward his older brother, but it would not be until years later that he realized that the love he felt for his big brother was not like any other emotion he’d feel toward another human being. That he did not just simply love his brother, but that he was  _ in love _ with him.

 

**† † † † †**

 

_ Present day Lawrence, Kansas _

_ Summer of 1995 _

 

Summers in Kansas were unforgiving.

 

If the heat did not do you in, it was the swarms of mosquitos that solicited around any water source they could find, including the sweat gathering on your own temples.

 

Living on the outskirts of Lawrence, the Winchester boys knew all too well how taxing the summers could be, more so working inside of their father’s shop. The heat was sweltering inside of the Bunker’s garage, trapping all the hot air inside like a sauna.

 

No matter the air conditioner that hummed from the office located off to the side of the garage which spit cold air that did little to assuage the scorching heat. The AC was as useless as the mosquito repellant that store clerks strategically placed by their registers at each shop in town. Nothing on God’s green earth could subdue the heat—or the mosquitos for that matter.

 

The twelve-year-old seated himself upon two tires that had been stacked into the front corner of the garage where the summer sun had full reign. Sam wiped at the sweat trickling down from his temples with the back of his arm, but the rest of his body already had a thin sheen of sweat and so the youngest did not know if he was reducing the amount of sweat that collected on his forehead or if he was merely spreading the sweat to other sweaty parts of his body.

 

Sam took a sip of the sweet-tea that Uncle Bobby had made earlier that morning and stared down at the scuffed tops of his red Converse. It was not just the summer heat that kept Sam rooted in that one spot or the mere fact that he was bored out of his mind or that it was too incredibly hot to do manual labor, but the fact that his big brother was only twenty feet away—his bare chest shining with sweat and the lean muscles he had gained almost miraculously since he turned sixteen earlier that year that rippled in between his shoulder blades with each movement—that kept the youngest’s eyes from exploring any further than the tops of his shoes.

 

There was something about gawking at his shirtless brother or sneaking a quick glance when Dean would be changing out of clothes in front of him that Sam knew to be wrong. Hell—there was something incredibly wrong about envisioning said brother with his crisp green eyes and nutmeg freckles hovering above him as his own nails dug into the lean expanse of his big brother’s back that damn near bordered on clinically insane.

 

Just that thought alone caused his mouth to dry up and the tips of his ears to grow hot.

 

Sam jumped, startled by his brother’s sudden presence and a splash of sweet-tea landed on his hand as Dean plopped down beside him on the tires—still completely shirtless and still completely oblivious to what it did to his little brother’s preteen heart.

 

“I’m startin’ to think all this heat is goin’ to Dad’s head,” Dean began and he reached out for the glass of tea, which Sam quickly handed over. He watched as his brother’s Adam’s apple twitched as he swallowed down a large mouthful of the cold drink before he handed it back, sticking a cherry scented cigarette between his lips and lighting it. “It’s too God damn hot to be workin’.”

 

“Well you know Dad, he’s the pinnacle of a business man,” replied Sam, taking a sip from the glass.

This rewarded a scoff from the back of his brother’s throat as Dean blew out a wisp of cherry smoke. “Yeah. He’s a God damn business man alright. Makin’ his sons do all the heavy work while he’s out gettin’ his dick sucked by the next available slut.”

 

Sam was never sure if his brother was saying such things because he was frustrated and the heat was altering him or if he had been one-hundred percent serious, but ultimately, Sam knew in about an hour or so later when his brother would cool down that he would return to his normal passive state.

 

Dean was never one to normally speak badly of their father—in fact, Sam was the one who religiously drug him through the mud—but no matter how awful John could be to them sometimes, his older brother hardly said a word that would be considered disrespectful. It was just how his big brother was hard wired since he was younger and Sam had always supposed that the death of their mother probably instilled this in him.

 

The youngest Winchester never knew their mother. He had seen pictures of her and he knew that she was beautiful and had a smile that could light up a room and that Dean looked a lot like her in many ways. Although he hardly remembered her, Sam still remembered her voice—even though her tragic death happened right after he turned six months old.

 

Mary’s voice was nothing short of angelic, even more so when she used to sit in the old rocking chair that Dean had in the corner of his bedroom where she would rock the youngest to sleep while singing him a lullaby or one of her favorite Beetles song: Hey Jude.

 

As a child, sometimes Dean would sit up on her lap while she rocked, demanding that he hold Sam until the youngest was fast asleep in his big brother’s arms. There were times when even now Sam would hear Dean humming Hey Jude underneath his breath while he worked on the cars in the garage, a singing voice that was gifted to him by their mother. The youngest Winchester couldn’t sing, at least not as well as his big brother.

 

In fact, there were many things that Dean could do better than him. He could take a part an entire engine and put it back together seamlessly. He could work hours on end, bent over the hood of a car for long periods of time. He understood their father in ways that Sam couldn’t begin to try and imagine—nor did he ever want to.

 

The only things Sam could honestly say he was better than his brother at was scholarly knowledge, his ability to write and read above and far beyond proficiency of kids his age, and that he could cook slightly better than Dean. The youngest knew that none of these mundane abilities mattered to John. So instead of having to be under his father’s scrutinizing gaze when John was actually at his own shop, Sam was next door with Uncle Bobby, curled up near the window reading a book or in the kitchen with him learning a new recipe or even in the junk yard, sitting atop the Chevelle with his pen scribbling in his notebook.

 

The youngest Winchester found more than just solstice writing in his journal—it was a way for him to describe his emotions more accurately than he could in real life. He could vent endlessly about his father. There were pages and pages of quick, angry ink, but his pages were mostly filled with mentioning’s of his brother. He could adore his brother within the pages of his journal. He could reveal the way he loved his brother in ways that would make him the freak of Lawrence if anyone was to know—and maybe he was a freak.

 

Sam had wondered this often. He knew it was wrong and it was taboo to love Dean more than he was supposed to, but he didn’t understand why it had to be that way. Why it was seen as sinful or impure to love his brother unconditionally in more ways than one. Perhaps he’d never understand, but Sam was okay with that, because no matter how “wrong” it was in someone else’s eyes it did not matter so long as he loved Dean. So long as his big brother loved him in return.

 

“We should do somethin’ fun,” Dean said suddenly, taking the last drag from his cigarette before he snuffed it out on the tire beneath him.

 

“Like what?” asked Sam, his eyebrows pulling into a curious V.

 

A grin that could only be described as deliciously mischievous pulled at the corner of his brother’s lips. “Follow me and I’ll show you.”

 

And Sam did.

 

He trudged along behind his brother like an obedient pup as Dean lead them through the junk yard. Sam was silent, even as they climbed over a barbed-wire fence at the end of Uncle Bobby’s property. They continued on through the field of wheat until they came to what appeared to be an abandoned swimming hole with a lone oak tree that had a rope dangling down from one of its branches.

 

Sam couldn’t help but be mildly impressed at his brother’s gem of a find.

 

“How did you know this was here?” The youngest asked as he leaned over the edge of the swimming hole to get a good look at it, surprised even still that the water appeared to be fairly clean.

 

“You’d know this was here too if your nose wasn’t always stuck in one of those books, Sammy,” came his big brother’s reply from behind him.

 

Sam threw his gaze over his shoulder, prepared to defend his insatiable reading habit when he practically swallowed his tongue. Dean had kicked his shoes off and he was unbuttoning his jeans by the time his younger brother had turned to face him. Heat immediately rushed to Sam’s face. He had tried to advert his gaze, but that proved to be difficult when his mouth suddenly went dry as Dean removed his jeans, stepping out of them completely.

 

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, trying to keep his voice from catching as his big brother stood in front of him wearing nothing but the amulet around his throat, a smirk on his lips, and his boxers snug around his hips.

 

“Modelin’,” joked Dean and then he gave an exasperated roll of his eyes when his little brother’s eyebrow raised slightly. “What does it look like I’m doin’?”

 

“Indecent exposure,” The youngest deadpanned and this rewarded him with a bark of laughter.

 

“You wish.” The eldest took a few steps toward Sam and his heart fluttered in his chest like a butterfly caught in a net. “I’m givin’ you about three seconds to get your scrawny ass in the water before I put you in there myself.”

 

“Dean, I’m not really in the mood to swim--”

 

“One.”

 

“I’m being serious--” Sam tried again, his pubescent voice cracking slightly in panic.

 

“Two. So am I.”

 

Meeting his older brother’s gaze, the mischievous glint there in the pine of his irises, Sam knew there was no way out of it. He was going into the water, whether he wanted to or not. Sam quickly kicked off his Converse and he was barely able to rip his shirt over his head before his brother said “three” and tackled him into the water.

 

The coldness of it caused him to yelp in shock. He had forgotten—for only a moment—where he was and water was quickly inhaled. Sam coughed and sputtered when he came up, trying to get the water out of his lungs. He was so preoccupied with damn near coughing up his own lungs that he did not hear Dean swim closer until he felt his brother’s hand against his bare back, soothing the damage he had done by rubbing his palm against Sam’s back.

 

“You’re such a dick,” The youngest managed after he could take a full breath without coughing and his throat and lungs burned.

 

Dean—blatantly ignoring his brother’s insult—grabbed Sam’s hip under the water and turned him to face him. Without a word, he grabbed the youngest’s arms, lifting them above his head.

 

“Keep your arms up,” The eldest instructed, both of his hands cradling Sam’s bony elbows, helping him keep his arms up, although Sam was fully capable to do this on his own. “It will help get air to your lungs.”

 

Sam certainly had dreams about Dean holding his arms above his head, pinning his wrists down with either one or both of his own hands while he fucked into him ruthlessly. Those kind of dreams sometimes caused the youngest to awake in the night with a painful erection that he would have to take care of swiftly or sometimes he would awake in the morning with his boxers wet with pre-come. Either way, Sam dreamed of these things often—albeit because his hormones were out of whack due to his pubescence or because he had such a strong sexual—emotional and physical—attraction toward his brother or perhaps it was a dangerous cocktail of both.

 

Of course with all of the dreams he had, Sam never imagined it would be because his brother damn near drowned him and was now seeking to repair the damage. The youngest wasn’t going to complain at this point in time, however.

 

After a little while, a playful smirk tugged at the corner of his brother’s mouth. “You’re not supposed to drink the water, bitch,” Dean said, the tone in his voice nothing short of admiration and he ruffled Sam’s wet mop on his head.

 

Sam swatted his brother’s hand away, but there was a smile on his lips. “Jerk.”

 

It was all good natured, the touch and the banter between the two brothers, but it took the youngest all of two seconds to realize how close his brother was to him. He could clearly count the nutmeg freckles on his brother’s nose and Sam’s heart beat in his throat at the intimate space between the two of them. The distance couldn’t come close to being described as a personal level, but intimate. It startled and excited him.

 

And there was a moment—millisecond—where Sam could have sworn he saw something in the green depths of his brother’s eyes. That maybe he too was as affected as the youngest was at how close they were, the heat of their bodies pushing against one another. And there was another moment—a millisecond—that Sam thought his brother was going to say something that should only be shared between the two of them because the eldest’s lips parted. And there was another moment—an intense span of time—where Sam thought that maybe his brother would lean down and press his warm, wet mouth against his own because he wanted to share the “wrongness” of his affections toward his little brother.

 

Neither of those hopes would come to pass. At least not at that specific moment in time, but something  _ did _ happen that would later lead to a life altering moment for the both of them.

 

Dean leaned down suddenly, his lips brushing against the space between Sam’s eyes and gave his brother a wide grin. “C’mon. We better head back before Dad gets an aneurism.”

 

As the brothers walked back through the wheat field, the eldest’s arm hooked loosely around the youngest’s shoulders—both drenched—Sam would think only about the feeling of Dean’s mouth against his skin.

  
It was only for a split moment, but that moment would be something that his little preteen heart would hold onto until earlier that next year when all of the hopes and wishes and dreams that Sam had about his brother would soon blossom into something neither one of them could take back, nor would either of them want to in the end. 


End file.
